


Falsehood

by magicalcookie664



Series: Vent stuff or something [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Blood, Blood and Injury, Crying, Fever, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Infection, Logic | Logan Sanders Angst, Logic | Logan Sanders Needs a Hug, Mild Gore, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, logan is not okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalcookie664/pseuds/magicalcookie664
Summary: Logan's just a machine, right? He can't feel, he can't hurt, he can't cry.(Vent fic #2.)
Relationships: None
Series: Vent stuff or something [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773316
Comments: 9
Kudos: 114





	Falsehood

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Read the tags. Stay safe. 
> 
> Here's me back with another vent fic because what else can I post? Quality? Imagine...

Logan's head hurts. He presses his hands to his face, obscuring his eyes. His head still throbs, chest empty and aching and - oh, there's blood on his fingers. How'd that get there? He lowers his arms, staring at the crimson smears streaking the skin on his palms. His hands curl into fists. 

Logan doesn't feel. That's what he tells them all, tells them he's apathetic, that he has no emotions, that he can't feel pain or happiness or joy or love. He paints himself in lies, layering up his facade with delicate calculated hands. Everything he does is pre-planned, logical, robotic. He works and works and never ever allows himself rest until his body gives out and forces him to. He functions perfectly, every detail tweaked in high definition. 

So why does he feel like crying? Why does he feel like screaming, like slamming his head into his wall until he decorates his room with his brains? Why does he feel like clawing at his skin until the pain disappears? He doesn't know. Why is it that he has to to be Logic? Why is it he's never allowed to feel? Why is it that he's always ignored, silenced, pushed aside, unwanted? This, he does know. He, unlike the others, isn't supposed to have emotions. They aren't programmed into him, so why are they present? Why are his eyes brimming with tears, his shoulders shaking, his chest aching? Why does his heart hurt so much? What heart? You have none. You're a machine, remember? You're invincible, indestructible, a piece of computer programming. You're not real like them. You're not alive like them. You can't love like them, laugh like them, speak like them, walk like them, breathe like them, think like them, feel like them, BE LIKE THEM. 

Tears spill down his cheeks, painting them with shiny black lines. He rubs at them, staring at the inky colour staining his finger. It hurts. Oh, it hurts. He sits up properly, his vision blurring with tears. He picks up his blade again, relishing in the familiarity of the handle secured within his shaking hand. He tugs up his sleeve, his dead eyes falling upon the mass of scars and cuts littering his skin. Some have grown infected, the red ringed wounds weeping liquid of the wrong colour. He doesn't care. He slashes at his skin again and again, watching as it parts in the wake of the blade, letting the crimson contents spill out. 

A sob chokes out of him. Ink streams down his face, filling his mouth, dripping from his chin and onto the bedsheets. He continues slicing up his arm until his clothes are stained in red, his arm swamped in blood. He drops the knife beside him. His finger touches his bloodied arm delicately. He stares at the spot of red on the tip of his finger, unsure what to think, what to feel, what to do. 

He feels alone - he feels nothing. He feels sad - he feels nothing. He feels scared - he feels nothing. He feels angry - he feels nothing. He feels overwhelmed - he feels nothing. He feels like dying - he feels like a void. 

Another choked sob forces out of his mouth. He smears black into the red, mixing the colours until he's left with a gross darkened mess. He's painted in inky tears and vibrant blood and he feels. Logan feels. He feels miserable. He feels alone. He feels petrified. He feels broken. He's shattered, this machine. He's fractured into thousands upon thousands of bloody shards and he'll never be fixed. He lies back against the pillows on his bed. Tears pour from his eyes, sobs wrack his fevered form, blood soaks his bedsheets with bright shades of red. His tired eyes close. His shuddering pulse leaps. 

When he feels a little more like himself, he'll clean up, change into his usual attire and prepare for dawn, for the new day, for facing the others with his faux mask of apathy, with his tangled web of falsehoods. Until then, he'll break a little more every day. He'll cry his ink into his pillows and watch as both time and his life slip through the gaps between his fingers. 

No one need be concerned. He doesn't have feelings, remember? Remember?

"Falsehood," Logan whispers, as a rueful laugh explodes out of him. He continues to laugh, finding he cannot stop. He laughs until he chokes, coughing up blackened blood onto his pillowcases. 

The next day, when Patton tells him he overheard him laughing, when Morality faces him with a wide smile and tells him he's glad Logan was that happy, Logan only nods. He doesn't correct Patton, doesn't reveal his secrets. Patton is so innocent, so naive. He doesn't want to ruin that, taint the adorable side with his imperfections. 

Logan laughs again, the laughs giving way to more sobs. He finally drifts off to sleep with his skin painted with his pain.

No one need ever know. 


End file.
